folie a deux
by HeartOfCoal
Summary: 'It could have been weeks, since he's been admitted, or it could have been years; he's stopped trying to pull himself from the numb haze of the psychiatric drugs.' Will Graham broke out of Baltimore State Hospital– or did he? (rating it k just to be safe.)
1. Chapter 1

**a/u: new story. here we go.**

Somewhere across the world (or even across town) someone was dying, and probably dying painfully. Their nervous system lighting up like the Fourth of July. Screaming. Praying. Human minds are such powerful things until faced with something like death; then they crumble and leave their host trembling and convulsing– choking on their own fear. The thought of this both intrigues and depresses Will.

Will is unsure how many days he has spent at Baltimore State Hospital. They seem to mold together, the physiatrist faces blurring into one (the one that he convinces himself isn't Hannibal's face). It could have been weeks, since he's been admitted, or it could have been years; he's stopped trying to pull himself from the numb haze of the psychiatric drugs.

It's been weeks (or years) since Will has last dreamed. His nights are a bundle of spinning vision (a side effect of one of the meds) and goose-bumps covering his body. They don't trust him enough to give me more blankets. It's something that you 'earn', and Will was simply too numb at this point to give a damn about nighttime shivers.

Visitors come in waves, he's learned. Alana is usually the first, and then Jack, and then Beverly. Sometimes others from the Academy come and stare at him through the glass. Will doesn't talk anymore– doesn't bother with it, because who would believe him?

Will isn't sure exactly when he stopped talking. He just gradually realized that he stopped responding to the various comments from the other inmates. The check-ups are the worst; when they're checking his body for self-harm marks and asking him intimate questions. He doesn't answer anymore. Doesn't meet anyone's eyes. Doesn't bother.

When Jack gets word that Will has stopped talking, he drives over to the hospital and tries to converse with Will. He doesn't respond to Jack, who uses the hour to try to convince himself that his former special agent is okay. Will's hair had grown longer and his eyes darker, pale blues turning into stormy seas– he has lost weight. Jack could see the vulnerable slope of his collar beneath his orange jumpsuit. He asked the nurses, who said Will has stopped eating for the most part.

That's the last time Jack visits Will in the hospital. He tells himself that it's so that Will can unattached himself from Jack, but they both know its so that the guilt brewing in Jack's eyes won't burn his brain.

Alana is gradually coming to accept that she won't ever see Will again. Granted, she can see him for an hour behind bars every two weeks, but she'll never be able to feel him. Slowly, steadily, she draws back from him, so that he will learn not to miss her as much (and visa versa).

Two weeks after Will was found guilty of murder, Dr. Lector packed up his things and moved– nobody knew he was gone until they drove up the driveway to his empty house. Nobody tried to contact him; after all, he'd probably had enough of them.

Will had been behind bars for about six months before he vanished. When Jack caught word of it, he let the police handle it for a few days before taking the case.

And just like that, the old forensic team was back were they belonged– side by side and brains kicking brains.

"There's no sign of a breakout," Beverly said quietly after another day of looking over Will's file.

"Well it's not like he just… 'poof'", Price mumbled, hands mimicking an explosion above his head.

They lapsed into another silence before Zuller yawned and stood up–chair scrapped against the floor, the sound ringing in Beverly's ears. She glared at him from across the table.

"It's late, I'm gonna head out."

"Bye."

Zuller cast Price a pitiful look and left, the door swinging for what seemed like ages.

"What's up with you?"

"Nothing," Beverly muttered, flipping through the report of Will's departure again.

"You look like hell."

"What else is new?"

Price sighed. "Fine. Don't talk to me."

"You got it." Price folded his arms and leaned back.

"You think he'll kill again if we don't find him?"

Beverly didn't answer.

"You don't think he did it, do you?"

She sighed curtly and closed the manila folder. The wind from it brushed her hair off her shoulders. "Do you?"

"Look at the evidence, Bev."

"Something about it was wrong. Can't you see that?"

"I know he was sick, but… that's not an excuse."

"I'm not saying it is!" she snapped. Deep breath. "I'm just saying that it just doesn't sit right."

"Zuller is right… it's late. Why don't you go get some sleep?" Price nudged.

"You really don't care, do you?"

"About what?"

"This case. Will."

Price sighed and scratched the back of his head. "I didn't really know him. I mean, he was a good agent, but… he was a little out there."

"Aren't we all?"

"Not in that way." Price sighed. "I gotta get home. See you tomorrow."

Beverly waved at him as he left.

The only sign that he was gone was the fact that a window had been left open a crack on the second floor. Will slept on the third, so he must have gotten out of his cell. After being at the facility for six months, he would know the guard's patterns– it would be easy for him to slip past them.

Somehow, though, he must have managed to switch off the cameras on the second and third floor– the last image they have of him is at 10: 39 pm, looking up suddenly and out past the bars of his cell.

It almost looks to Beverly like Will see's something (or someone) in that minute before the footage cuts out.


	2. Chapter 2

Will didn't know where he was. He was warm, he knew that, but he didn't know why.

The sound of the car engine clawed at his drug-withdrawing head. He groaned and opened his eyes; vertigo making him shut them again.

Someone hushed him, hand stroking his face, and he leaned into the touch.

"It's alright. Go back to sleep," they murmured.

Will didn't object.

When he woke again he remained still– his senses were less foggy. Head pounding, still dizzy, but he was awake nonetheless.

He rolled his head to the side and looked at the empty driver's seat. Leather upholstery. Will knew the car but he wouldn't let himself except it. Wherever he was, it was dark; the car was still running and he looked around before unlocking his door.

No alarm.

Will knew he needed to get to safety, because wherever he was, the man he unexplainably knew he was with wasn't safety; not anymore.

The ground was cool beneath his bare feet. He forgot what season it was, (could have been fall, could have been winter) but he still knew how to run. The trees tilted. Will knew that he was probably drugged. He knew that if he could push hard enough he could break through the haze; maybe. He prayed.

_crack._

Will took off again like a startled dear. The forest was like an ocean around him; waves crashing over him. Seasick. He swallowed hard and kept running until something hit the back of his head.

He felt the blood running down his neck but didn't feel the pain until he fell to his knees. His lips came into contact with someone's neck, their scent like another drug in his bloodstream.

"No," Will whispered.

The world titled to the left. The right. He forgot where he was.

Just a dream.

Must be a dream.

He felt their hands on his face; smooth, comforting. Again, subconsciously, he leaned into the touch as his vision flickered. The blood drying on his neck made him shiver.

"Shh," they whispered when he began to cry.

"No, no, no."

"Yes, Will. Yes."

Alana sat at home with Will's dogs curled around her. She had just gotten off the phone with Beverly; they still hadn't found anything concerning Will.

She just couldn't place the tug of unease at the base of her skull– something was wrong.

"Hello?"

"Jack, it's Alana."

Jack sighed and rolled out of bed, glancing wearily at the clock. He'd have to be up in twenty minutes anyway.

"What?" he whispered, careful not to wake his peaceful wife.

"Can you get me a list of what medication Will was on?"

"Why?"

Jack groaned quietly and made his way to the bathroom.

"I just need to know, please." Alana took a deep breath. "You could just give it to someone on the forensic team if you can't give it to me."

"I'll get it to someone on the team today, okay?"

"Thanks, Jack," Alana said softly.

"Yeah."

"It's not your fault, you know."

"I don't need this, Alana."

"I'm just trying to help," Alana said, sighing.

"I know."

Jack leaned against the wall and felt the cool tile against his skin. He really did know that she was trying to help; and he really did know that this wasn't his fault.

"I'll see you later. Thanks."

"Bye."

He hung up and started the shower, shaking the few nights of fitful sleep out of his aging bones.

"I'm getting too old for this," he muttered to himself.

In the next room, Bella stirred in her sleep– he ached to wrap himself around her and sleep for the entire day.

Jack Crawford knew, though, that we all ache for things that we cannot have.

Beverly waited until Alana was done teaching for the day to wonder into her classroom, a list of Will's medications in her hand. She smiled at the teacher and leaned against her desk as Alana read the list of drugs to herself.

"He was on a number of hypnotics," she noted.

"Yeah, and read the report sometime on his reaction to them."

"Not good?"

"No, just like you thought."

Alana flipped to the next page.

"Headache, confusion, loss of appetite."

"I spoke to one of the nurses. They said that he was almost too drugged out to walk in a straight line most days," Beverly said, following Alana with a curious gaze.

"If that's true…"

"Then how did he manage to disarm the cameras, sneak past the nurses, jump from the third floor to the second and then to the ground," Beverly said, "and then be off the premises and out the gate within twelve minutes?"

"Exactly."

"We need to call Jack."

And they did.

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She remembers pain– hot, searing pain that ripped up her fragile skull. Her nerves flared out and then, thankfully, her body went numb.

Blood.

Too much blood.

Her body turned to the red sea; she awaits Moses to come and part her, vainly remembers that there's supposed to be a God for moments like this.

She slumped into her attacker's body, hearing him hum softly to her. False comfort. The shaking came next, and he wrapped his arms around her and laid her on the floor.

His footsteps fade in and out and soon she sees two pairs of feet. She sees the younger man, sweaty and shaking, and is tempted to close her eyes as the doctor grabs a hold of her torn ear.

There's groaning and weak, faded protest, but all of it's a blur to her. She shaking, convulsing, and soon the hands are back on her, pulling her up– voices soft in her remaining ear.

A sharp prick of a needle in her neck, and suddenly she's warm and floating– can't quite place where she is, and has no desire to.


	3. Chapter 3

The whole forensic team is getting antsy– none of their leads for Will's case are getting them anywhere. His house is empty; no signs of anyone entering or leaving. Nobody has spotted him anywhere across the country; it would be impossible for him to leave. Jack had pushed aside Alana's theory that maybe Will had help.

Beverly and Alana meet together on a Saturday night to share a drink and talk. They meet at a local bar and find a darker table in the back corner of the room, their voices hushed as they sip their beer.

"How are things?" Alana asks, staring at Beverly's strong face.

"The same as usual, I guess. How about you? Are you holding up okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Uh-huh."

Alana sighs and leans forward, her hands cradling her head. "I just don't know what to think, Bev."

"You think I do?" she responds, laughing through the heavyset tone of voice.

"Do you really think he ran away…?"

"As opposed to what?"

"I mean, you read the same report. You said it yourself, even, that it would be near impossible for him to do the things he supposedly did while under the influence–"

"But not _impossible._"

Beverly put her hands up when Alana shot her a look. "Hey, don't look at me like that. I would love for him to be innocent, but," she said, voice dropping, "if someone did take him, they wouldn't keep him alive."

"What?"

"Let's face it, Alana. There are so many people that want to kill him for what he did… and if I were Will, if I did manage to escape, I would be smart enough to know that someone would find me. I'd just…" Beverly mimicked pulling the trigger of a gun near her head; lips forming a soft 'o'.

Alana bit her lip and sighed, draining her glass in one swoop. It burned a little going down, but the pain just made her more alert. She and Beverly chatted for a while more; casually, trying to forget what they very well knew the other was thinking about.

She let herself scan the room and breath in the musky scent. Business was slow for a Saturday night– a few bar scenes at the front of the room and a young couple kissing hungrily in the booth across from them in the other corner. Alana suddenly ached to be kissed by someone and decided that she'd better get home before she made a mistake.

"I should get going; it's late," she breathed softly, motioning for a check.

"Yeah, same."

They both threw down money and exited, saying goodbye at the door. Beverly wrapped her coat tighter around herself, surprised by the sudden gust of bitter wind. It bit at her nose and slithered down the neck of her coat. She was shivering by the time she reached her car and gratefully slid into the vehicle, switching the heat on full blast. For a few minutes she just sat and looked around her, letting her eyes wonder the streets.

It came as a shock that Christmas was only a few weeks away. Soon, she knew, it would begin to snow.

Beverly swallowed hard and put her car in gear, remembering a promise that she and Will had made to each other; saying that they would get each other gag gifts this year. _Guess that's not happening_, she thought.

The road to her house wasn't busy at all; but she swore that the one car that passed her looked vaguely familiar; black as night and driven coolly. Tinted windows, of course, so she couldn't see who was in it– but the sight of the vehicle rolling towards her made her shiver.

She thought that if she believed in the Devil then that was the car it would drive.

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Hannibal could hear Will stir in his sleep; his head pressed against the window, hair still wet from where he had to fix his head. He wished that he could sleep as easily as his former patient. He was tired.

When he passed Beverly, he was thankful for tinted windows– it was extremely chanceful that he would pass her on this road, but he didn't think anything of it. Instead he checked his gas and drove on towards Minnesota.

It was getting cold out– he should have brought a warmer coat. _Foolish, Hannibal,_ he chided.

Will sighed in his drugged dreams; he shouldn't wake for a few more hours. Didn't want a repeat of last night. Hannibal could smell Will's fear even in is slumber. Part of him despised the fact that Will didn't trust him; part of him liked it.

He knew he had total control over Will. He could kill him right now and dump him somewhere nobody would find him– or he could return him to Baltimore and Will would be punished for his departure. Either way, they both knew who was boss– but there was still a part of Will that couldn't help but to lean into Hannibal's touch.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– ––––––––

The dogs were uneasy.

Of course, Alana knew that they were uneasy because _she_ was uneasy– that was something she had learned very quickly about his dogs: they fed off of your emotion. If you were worried, they whined and pressed their noses into your palm. If you were sick, they would curl around you and try not to make a lot of noise. It was almost as if they knew how you were feeling, even before you did.

Alana is starting to realize why Will loved his dogs so much.

She cleared her thoughts– _loves._ Not past tense; not yet. There wasn't yet any proof that he had been killed. No blood. No body.

For a moment she imagined having to identify his body and swallowed her tears before they could begin. Winston pressed his muzzle into her thigh. Alana sighed and whispered his name, patting the couch for him to come up. Funny how when she first got the dogs, she was convinced that they'd ruin the furniture, when in reality, most of them still wouldn't even get on the couch with her. Though, Winston didn't object and laid his head in her lap.

"What's wrong?" she mumbled to him.

He titled his head, brown eyes locked with hers– his gaze reminded her of Will's: lonely and quiet, but something you couldn't look away from. Winston whined; Alana felt the vibration it made on her leg.

"I know," she said as if she did, "I miss him too."

No matter how long they sit, Beverley doesn't think that the team is going to get anywhere with Will's case.

She had never been one to give up, but she knew a lost cause when she saw one. So when she sighed heavily and finally put down his case, everyone seemed to follow suit. Nobody talked– they didn't need to.

"I almost wish he were dead," Price said suddenly.

They all stared at him in shock until he shook his head, words falling from his mouth like a waterfall. "I mean, just so that we could actually say goodbye."

Alana had always been the kind to drink tea before bed– but over the past few weeks, she's followed her chamomile with a shot of something a little stronger just to get her to sleep. Dreams, she had learned at an early age, are not something that can be easily avoided. And so she wasn't surprised when she dreamt of Will for the fifth night in a row.

They never talk; they never have to. She dreams that he's sitting with her on her bed, legs folded beneath him as he watches her dream. It's almost like he's watching over her rather than just watching her; but Alana knows that this is just a projection of the fact that she couldn't protect Will. He never touches her; she almost wishes that he would.

Although she knew that she couldn't save Will from himself, that didn't stop her from wishing that she had tried harder. When Will talks, this time, she lavishes in his voice– soft, deep rumbles that lay over her like a blanket.

_"Nobody cares unless you're dying."_

She wakes calmly but with her heart thudding, automatically reaching out to the side of her bed. The bed is empty (she knew it would be) but still the feel of sheets tangled in her fingers made her ache.

The image of Will is still vivid in her mind– she swears she can smell him.


	4. Chapter 4

**a/u: i'll probs finish this tonight or tomorrow. happy reading.**

When it starts to snow for the first time that winter, it's ugly. There was really no other way for Will to describe it as it lands on the window of Dr. Lector's car; uneven, half-melted blobs that smear and drop out of his lone of sight. His head pounds– body aches. He could taste the fever on his lips.

Will sees a town slowly ease into view and he coughs, the momentum sending his vision swirling. The vertigo makes him sick. He tries to take a few deep breaths but the air doesn't seem to be absorbed into his lungs. More titling vision– he swears that he's swimming.

"Can you pull over?" Will mutters, leaning his head against the cool window.

"Hmm?"

"I think I'm gonna be sick."

The doctor nods and takes a quick glance at Will; head damp with sweat, a slight tremor to his limbs.

"Just as well; we're nearly out of gas." He shoots Will a glance when they pull up to the gas station. "Hood up, Will."

Will does as he's told and walks around back towards the bathroom. The walls fall in on him and he leans against them for a moment, the smell overwhelming, and he feels his knees begin to bruise as he hits the ground– throat burning, pain ripping up his body. His vision settles, finally, after what seemed like years of being up-close-and-personal with the shitty gas station toilet. He stumbles to the sink and rinses his mouth with cold water– tries not to think of all the germs on the faucet. There is no mirror. Just as well, because Will didn't want to know what he looked like at this point.

The idea hits him as he's about to leave.

He spins on his heel and soon he's on his knees again, dragging the jagged edge of the toilet paper dispenser against his forearm. It cuts into him easily. Will watches the blood flow down his arm, heart thudding.

He knows he doesn't have long– he sets to work.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– ––––––––

Alana loves the snow, but when it started to come down, the only thing she could think of was the fact that this was one winter that she wouldn't have Will around for. As easy as that, the flakes had lost their appeal. She turned the volume on her T.V. up so that she could hear it from the kitchen as she made herself dinner.

Truthfully, she doesn't know why she bothers to turn it up– it's not like she's paying any attention to it. The reason she keeps it on is because it's a source of comfort noise. It blocks out her thoughts. She concentrated on the voice and the sound her knife makes as she slices carrots, and then slides them into a bowl on top of a salad. Recently, she's become more vegetarian than not. Alana can't stand the thought of killing anymore, no matter how small the life.

She jumps when there's a knock on her door. For a moment she hovers around the cutting board, knife in hand, but then makes her way to the hallway.

"Who is it?" she calls.

"Beverly." She sounded winded, even through the thick layer of wood.

Alana pulls it open and Beverly strides inside, talking at a thousand miles an hour even before she's past the threshold.

"Slow down!" Alana says, direction the other woman to follow her to the kitchen. "Do you want something to drink? You look worn out."

Beverly shakes her head, black hair flying over her slender shoulders. She sighs, hand pressed to her eyes, and tries again, slower this time. Her nerves are frayed. From her purse she pulls out Will's file and hands it to Alana, who stares at the top picture.

"What is this?" Alana asks as she takes her bowl from the counter.

"Read it," Beverly says; Alana does.

In tragically messy handwriting, someone had scrawled the words 'Help Will Graham' on the wall in what looked like dark brown paint.

"Is this a joke?"

Beverly shakes her head. "It was found a few miles outside of Abigail Hobb's cabin."

"And?"

"And that's not paint."

Alana looks up from her food, swallowing hard. "What is it, then?"

"It's blood."

Her veins go cold– she licks her lips slowly, tasting the fear on herself. "Who does the blood belong to, Beverly?"

"I just got the results back."

"And?"

"It's Will's blood, Alana," Beverly whispers, and watches the realization hit Alana full force.

Will Graham hadn't broken out of Baltimore State Hospital– he had been kidnapped.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– ––––––––

She knew that he was close when she saw the headlights– heard the gravel crunch beneath his tires. Abigail shivered, licking her lips and swallowing her tears. From the basement window, she could see Hannibal take Will by the upper arm and drag him inside. Will screamed, recoiling against his touch like an angry child. With a firm hand, Hannibal reached back and punched Will in the jaw; he slouched forward into the doctor's touch, blood dripping into the snow from his torn lip.

Hannibal pushed the semi conscious Will into a chair. She doesn't bother to hide from him– he's polite, offering her his hand at the top of the stairs. Abigail swallows her fear; remembers something her dad once told her about a predator– that they could smell the fear on you.

When she sees Will, their last encounter comes flooding back to her in chilled waves of regret. She had thought that he was a monster.

Oh, how wrong she was.

Will didn't want to believe what he saw, because that would make the moment all the more real. Where Abigail stood, he could see where her hair fell flatter to one side of her head where she was missing an ear. She looked at him, all doe-eyed and shaking, and he had the sudden urge to collect her in his arms and guard her from Hannibal.

Of course, Will knew that he couldn't escape from him anymore than he could help her run. He was hopeless, and he very well knew it.

"Come," Hannibal said, extending a hand to Will– he could smell the dread coming from Will's body as he stood, wavering in the spot for a moment.

He kept a hand steady on both of their backs until they reached the middle of the forest.

"Oh, God," Abigail muttered, looking down.

Hannibal had dug their graves. Much more than six feet under– he must have dirtied his clothes.

"Shh," Hannibal soothed.

Will and Abigail met eyes for a brief moment, both of them shivering from the cold and from the forgiveness that they read on each other. With a groan Will dropped to his knees, head in hands, and then felt what he knew he would feel– Hannibal's hand on the back of his shirt, pulling him up.

He spun around, his elbow connecting with the elder's head– Hannibal fell, the blow knocking his vision off track.

Will took hold on Abigail's numb hand and they ran.


	5. Chapter 5

Beverly slid into the passenger seat of Jack's car; he didn't bother to wait for her to buckle in. They were silent for the whole drive– their combined breathing was almost too much to handle. Half of the dispatch unit was going to Abigail's old house. Alana had gone with them. The other half was with Jack and Beverly, speeding towards the cabin in the woods where Abigail's father murdered the girls.

The road up to the house seemed miles long.

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Even through the haze, Hannibal knew that someone else had just pulled up at the cabin. He stumbled through the overgrowth.

A bit of blood dripped from his brow onto his lips. Will had hit him hard enough to render him unconscious for a few second and to split his head. _Rude,_ Hannibal thought. He could hear their footsteps– smell the sweat on their skin and could almost taste it freezing against their bodies. Hannibal licked his lips and listened.

Just like hunting.

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Will knew that Hannibal had to be close. He could feel himself try to run and every fiber in his body resist. Part of him was tempted to tell Abigail to go ahead, stop helping him up when he fell, and to run. Get help.

Help. Will could feel the word perched on the edge of his lips– isn't that what you're supposed to yell in a time like this? He couldn't remember; too foggy.

A branch snapped behind him. He could almost taste the end of Hannibal's gun again, and he ran harder, legs burning. Abigail shot him a desperate look– she had to know that they weren't going to make it. Not this time.

Hannibal popped out from behind a tree, gun in hand and blood on his fine lips. The two of them staggered to a halt about twenty feet from the doctor.

"Come, now," he whispered.

Will shoved Abigail roughly behind him– she clung to the back of his thin shirt, resting her forehead between his shoulder blades. She concentrated on his heart and the mud caked on his bare heels. His heart rate skyrocketed– Abigail grasped the material of his shirt. He smelled so familiar.

Everyone looked back to the cabin when the howling started.

Dogs.

One word came to mind– _Jack._

Hannibal began to turn, heart thumping, when he heard Jack's strong voice ring out. It bounced off the trees, and Will doesn't think he's ever been so happy to hear it. He turned to face Jack, but froze to find the gun pointed at his own chest.

All Jack saw was Will, with a pale girl behind him. It took him a second to believe it, but once it registered in his mind that she only had one ear, he aimed the gun level with Will's chest.

"Easy, Will," Jack said, taking a step forward,

"Jack!" Abigail cried, pointing to the left–

–at the same time that someone fired a gun.

The bullet pierced into Will's side, blood making an ocean on his pale shirt. Jack spun on his heel and fired two bullets into their shoulder before recognizing the man as Hannibal Lector.

Abigail caught Will before he hit the ground, cradling his head in her lap as he spluttered. His breathing was rough, erratic; with each new exhale, more blood spotted onto his blue lips.

He was distantly aware of Jack calling for medical help. For once, he didn't feel anything. It wasn't the same kind of numb he was used to, when he would drink himself to sleep, but rather a cold, tingling kind of numb. The kind of numb that burned. He shivered– pain tore through his abdomen and he gasped, blood dripping from the parting in his lips.

Jack stood back, watching Will roll his head to the side and meet Hannibal's tormented gaze. He reached up and with a bloodstained finger brushed away Abigail's tears.

"Don't you do that," he murmured.

Will smiled through the blood.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. Abigail wished that it were enough to heal him.

"Shh."

Will grimaced, coughing– his head rolled limply to the side, hair falling in Abigail's lap.

"Will?"

She was vaguely aware of someone pulling her away from Will as they loaded him on a stretcher; someone put their arms around her as she shook, his name still fresh on her lips.

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Alana met them at the hospital– she had arrived right after Will and Hannibal and a few minutes before Jack, Abigail and Beverly. She strode forward, collecting the trembling Abigail in her arms. She smelled like damp leaves and tears.

Nobody brought up the fact that they needed to bring Abigail in for questioning. Nobody brought up the fact that somewhere in this building, Will was probably dying.

Biting her tongue, Alana began to lead them to the waiting room– she tried not to think about the fact that somewhere in this building, Will was dying alone.

There's not a chance that any of them will sleep tonight.

Jack slides the recorder into the center of the table.

"Can you tell me, from the beginning, what happened?"

Abigail pulls her knees to her chest and tears at her tissue. It's already damp.

"Will and I had gone to Minnesota. To the cabin."

"Yes, I know."

"Well, Will had an episode, and I didn't… didn't feel _safe_ around him." she says bitterly, feeling her words like acid in her cheeks. "So I went to my house, leaving Will there."

"Is that the last time you see him, until the night in the woods?"

"No," she breathes.

"Go on."

"When I get to my house, Hannibal is there, in the kitchen. I run to him. And he talks to me a little, but something hits me, and I realize… I realize that he's the one that called my house, the day that my dad…" Abigail trails off. "Anyway, I tell him… and he admits to it.

"I ask him if he'll kill me, and he apologizes… because he can't protect me. Not anymore."

Abigail sighs shakily– she swears she feels her ribcage she along with her. "He tied me up. Kept me there, in the kitchen. And he went and he brought back Will, but I could tell that something was wrong with him."

"How?"

"He was stumbling and he couldn't speak. Not like before, when he was sick, but… there was something else. He looked drugged. He couldn't even walk straight. His pupils were huge– I could see them when Hannibal untied me."

"What happened next, Abigail?" Jack leaned forward, drinking in her words like water.

"Well, he took knife, and he…" Abigail started to mime someone sawing off her ear. "He cut it off. My ear. And I kinda passed out, but when I came to, I saw Hannibal grab it and open Will's mouth, and…"

She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. The room spun– her blood was a rushing roar in her ears.

"Give me a minute," she mumbled, rubbing her temples.

"Take your time."

Jack thought for a moment that Abigail might faint, because of the swaying– but she steadied herself and looked Jack right in the eye when she spoke.

"He shoved the ear down Will's throat."

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– ––––––––

_Hannibal is so close to me, suddenly– just on the other side of the bars. I don't know how he got here. I don't understand how he unlocks my cell, but all at once he has his hand over my mouth and a gun sticking me in the stomach. _

_ I follow him down the hallway, stopping when he stops and running when he runs. He doesn't speak. I'm too dazed too. I'm convinced this is a dream– but then again, I don't really dream anymore. _

_ When we get to the window he keeps the gun on my back and I stammer out, nearly falling off the edge before he grabs my shirt. The cement bites into my bare feet. I know now that I'm awake. I deliberate jumping, but I wouldn't die from just three stories, so I stay where I am. _

_ We're out of the gates in what feels like a few seconds. I attempt to pull away, but his grip is strong and the medication makes me unsteady, so I fall, sidewalk scrapping my knees. He grips the back of my shirt like I'm a dog and hauls me up. He smells the same. I feel like I'm going to be sick._

_ I've never been so scared in my life.  
_

When Will jolts awake, screaming, Alana and Jack are both in the room, but it's Alana that's at his bedside, collecting his shaking form in her arms. He's moaning, stitches pulling, suddenly imaging them ripping apart. Shaking. He can't stop. His teeth chatter until he can't feel his jaw anymore.

Alana holds him firmly, smoothing his hair as he cries. He sobs into Alana, finally breaking, because he's confused and tired and _god damn_ does he hurt. Alana can feel his chest convulse and feel the bitterness of his tears on her lips as she leans in close, kissing his cheek. He taste like sweat and fear, still– she wonders if that'll ever go away.

"It's okay, now. It's over," she whispers.

Will can feel the past seven months wash over him in a great, heavy wave and he lets himself lean into Alana– she's a foundation, sturdy and _there_, and he clings to her.

He doesn't let go for a long time.


End file.
